Becoming Lola

by Harriet Steel

  The prince rounded on Lola. ‘This must not happen again! I am the master here.’

  ‘And I am the mistress.’

  The courtiers froze, their eyes exchanging anxious glances. His face purple, Heinrich stomped off in the direction of the stables. At the edge of the glade, he swung round.

  ‘You, come with me,’ he growled, pointing to his most trusted aide. ‘The rest may stay here and continue with the entertainment. I do not wish to see anyone back at the palace before evening.’

  For a few moments after he had left, no one spoke. Then Lola stood up. ‘I fear that the prince did not find my little joke amusing.’

  Her smile encompassed the whole party and it was irresistible. Soon everyone was laughing at her witty apologies. ‘And so,’ she ended, ‘I hope we can still enjoy the day. Who will come with me to explore the woods?’

  At the top of a hill, they stopped to admire the sea of trees below. Lola turned to a good-looking young man with soft, fair hair.

  ‘Will you dance with me?’

  He blushed to the roots of his hair at her attention. ‘I am not much of a dancer,’ he said.

  She swayed from side to side humming a tune then reached for his hands. ‘But I am a very good teacher.’

  Soon the whole party joined in, enjoying themselves enormously as they tried out the steps that she showed them.

  The air was cooling by the time the party returned to the hunting lodge and the grand banquet awaiting them. Everyone was mellow with good food and wine when the prince’s aide entered the dining room. Lola looked up in surprise as he touched her shoulder.

  ‘I would like a word in private.’

  She nodded and followed him into a small ante-chamber where he handed her two envelopes.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘I suggest you read them for yourself.’

  Lola tore them open in turn. The first letter was from the prince and the second a letter of introduction to the Kapellmeister at the Court Theatre of Dresden.

  She looked up. ‘So your master wishes to be rid of me?’

  ‘The prince has enjoyed your visit, Dona Montez, but he regrets that affairs of state oblige him to ask you to cut it short.’

  ‘When would he like me to leave the country?’

  ‘He suggests tonight.’

  Lola laughed. ‘At least it is not a long journey.’

  The aide bowed stiffly. ‘I have a carriage waiting outside. If you will permit me, I will escort you back to the palace.’

  ‘Oh very well, but you must wait while I make my adieux.’

  An hour later, she came out to the courtyard. The aide handed her into the carriage, doing his best to conceal his irritation. All the way back to the palace, she talked gaily in spite of his monosyllabic replies.

  ‘You must accompany me to my apartments,’ she said as the carriage clattered into the courtyard.

  ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate.’

  ‘What nonsense, I merely want to give you something.’

  He followed her up the grand staircase, preferring not to risk a scene that was likely to increase the prince’s outrage. In her room, she rummaged in one of her trunks and pulled out a pair of castanets. ‘There,’ she tossed them to the surprised man, ‘wish your master goodbye from me and tell him they are a gift to remind him of my visit.’

  Chapter 16

  Dresden

  Lola sat in the drawing room of her suite with the morning’s newspapers strewn around her. She picked one up and thumbed her way through the theatre pages, looking for her reviews.

  At the moment we are seeing a curious and lovely vision on our stage, one began. That was good; she read on. In London she had the greatest success and was received with distinction by Queen Victoria herself; indeed she was allowed to demonstrate before that august personage her second and not inferior talent, the playing of native Spanish songs on the guitar, something she does not perform in public.

  She put the paper down. She had given that last version of her career in London to the correspondent of the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung two nights ago. She was glad that he had not, as she had feared, been too drunk to remember it.

  She turned to another report and frowned. This critic was less kind. We found in Dona Montez little grace in her poses or movements. She tossed the paper away. Why should she care for a fool’s opinions?

  Her performance the previous evening had been the last of the three guest appearances the Kappelmeister had booked. She had few regrets that she would now be leaving for Berlin, the capital of the kingdom of Prussia. She had exhausted her repertoire, and the audiences’ reactions had been very mixed. The citizens of Dresden were clearly fonder of opera than ballet. Everyone raved about a young composer, Richard Wagner, whose opera, The Flying Dutchman, had been premiered that winter, to great acclaim. From what she had heard, it sounded a very gloomy piece, but if that was what these Dresdeners wanted, they were welcome to it.

  She breakfasted on rolls and coffee while her maid finished packing the trunks. The journey to Berlin would take several days. Once there, she planned to take the letters of recommendation she had managed to obtain in Dresden to the Kappelmeister of the Royal Opera House.

  *

  When she arrived in Berlin, however, she found a disaster that thwarted her plans. A few days beforehand, a fire had broken out at the Royal Opera House. The building, one of the city’s jewels which had stood on Unter den Linden since the days of Frederick the Great, was a ruin.

  When the post coach she travelled in stopped for its passengers to view the damage, Lola looked with dismay at the heaps of blackened masonry and twisted iron. In many places, acrid smoke still rose into the air. Workmen stood about, unsure of what to do.

  ‘Ground’s so hot, you’d scald the soles of your feet if you were fool enough to walk on it,’ one of them remarked, shaking his head. ‘Don’t you come too close, lady.’

  ‘Were many people hurt?’ she asked.

  ‘God be thanked, no. The fire started after the place had closed for the night.’

  ‘So where are they all now?’

  ‘The company? At the Schauspielhaus. The Kappelmeister hopes to set up there for a while.’

  She thanked him and, as the coach trundled on, decided what she must do. It would not be a good time to approach the Kappelmeister, but she needed money. She must try.

  ‘He is too busy to see anyone,’ his assistant said when she presented her compliments. ‘We have no costumes, no props and all the scenery is burnt or ruined by the firemen’s hoses. Everything has to be made again or borrowed.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll see me.’ She sat down on a chair and lit up one of her cigarillos. ‘I’m happy to wait.’

  The man shrugged. ‘If you wish, but it might take all day.’

  Hours passed before the Kappelmeister, harassed and puffy eyed from lack of sleep, appeared. He scanned her letters briefly. He’d heard she had not found favour in Dresden but it didn’t surprise him. Opera was all they cared about there. He studied her for a moment or two: a face that was vivacious and arresting rather than classically beautiful and a magnificent figure. Yes, she might be the novelty he needed to fill the theatre at such a difficult time.

  ‘Spanish dances, you say?’

  ‘I am a Spaniard, sir. They are in my blood.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Very well: three dances. I’ll tell you the fee when I’ve seen them.’ He was gone before she had time to argue.

  Back in the street, she walked briskly home to her hotel. At least she had an engagement. Now she needed to make some friends - the more wealthy and influential the better.

  *

  It did not take her long to collect admirers and as soon as possible, she moved to a better hotel. There she entertained in her suite and champagne flowed until the early hours of the morning. The men who vied for her favours paid the bills but she was careful not to prefer any of them above the others. They were more generous if one kept
them guessing and in any case, she had had enough of love with George Lennox.

  The reception given to her dancing was, however, a disappointment. Her coterie of admirers could be relied upon to attend her performances and applaud vigorously, but their cheers and the flowers they tossed onto the stage could not hide the fact that a large part of the audience was not impressed.

  Then one morning, she received a letter embossed with the royal crest. She’d heard King Wilhelm himself had expressed an interest in seeing her dance, even though he rarely visited the theatre or the opera. Perhaps this was an invitation.

  Eagerly, she slit the envelope and pulled out the card inside. Embossed in red and gold, it was a command to dance at a performance to honour the state visit of Czar Nicholas of Russia. She hugged the card to her: so much for the Berlin audiences and their pernickety complaints.

  *

  The sun had almost set when the carriage sent to fetch her turned into the Grand Drive leading to the Neues Palais. Ahead, rosy evening light suffused the palace’s long, brick façade and stone columns. Closer to, she saw gilded eagles topped the domes and the rooflines bristled with statues.

  One wing of the palace contained an exquisite, rococo theatre. The royal chamberlain had informed her that, after the king and his guests had dined, there was to be a performance of Donizetti’s opera The Daughter of the Regiment. She would dance Los Boleros de Cadix during the interval.

  Backstage, once her maid had helped her on with the black dress embroidered with gold thread that she had chosen to wear, she sat quietly in front of the mirror for her hair to be arranged, thinking about the dance she would perform.

  The door to the dressing room was half open and she heard the first act of the opera come to an end, followed by applause from the royal party. Leaning forward, she tested the ribbons that fastened her shoes to make sure that they were secure then she stood up. Her heart pounded, but a surge of pride went through her too. In a few moments, she would be dancing for two of the greatest men in Europe. As she walked to the wings, she repeated the magic words: brava Lola, brava, then she stepped into the light.

  *

  The following day, she woke late, glowing with pleasure as all the splendour of the evening came back to her. The czar had looked magnificent in full dress uniform and the theatre and its audience had glittered. At the reception afterwards, both the czar and the king had congratulated her.

  She threw off the bedclothes, jumped up and pirouetted around the room humming snatches of her music. She had just one more performance booked at the Schauspielhaus. Surely after last night, the manager would beg her to stay, and let her name any fee she liked?

  She dressed that evening with a light heart, but from the moment she stepped on stage, she knew something was wrong. The murmur from the audience was hostile, not approving. The atmosphere distracted her and she stumbled in the faster passages of her dance. It was a relief to leave the stage but she was also angry. What did these people want? Had she not received their king’s seal of approval?

  In her dressing room, she scrubbed at her face with a cloth smeared with cold cream. No one came near her while her maid helped her to change out of her costume; her anger mounted. When she was done, she marched to the manager’s office.

  He looked up and coloured when he saw her.

  ‘Dona Montez. How can I help you?’

  ‘What is the matter with these Berliners?’ she stormed. ‘Don’t they know I danced for His Majesty and the czar?’

  ‘I fear that does not always assure the approval of His Majesty’s citizens.’

  She frowned. ‘So they insult his opinion? I’m sure he would not be pleased to hear that.’

  ‘I hope he will not, but I also hope you understand that I cannot renew your contract.’

  Her anger flared. ‘But I gave a command performance. I was honoured by the king.’

  ‘As I said, Dona Montez, the king is not the only arbiter of taste in Berlin.’

  ‘I challenge you to say so to his face.’

  The manager’s tone hardened. ‘My decision stands.’

  Lola scowled. ‘Then you are a fool. There are other cities and other theatres where people appreciate artistry. The czar himself told me I would be welcomed in Russia. I’ll be delighted to be finished with Berlin. My talent is wasted here.’

  He bowed stiffly. ‘I doubt we’ll meet again. I wish you good luck, and goodbye.’

  In the early hours of the morning, Lola sat alone in her hotel room. The ashtray beside her held a pile of stubs. She jabbed another half-smoked cigarillo into them. Her mouth felt dry and stale. How she wished she had someone to talk to. In the heat of the moment, it had been easy to stand up to the manager, but the bravado she had shown a few hours ago was hard to sustain now she was alone. Had she been right to abandon Eliza James? Lola was just a fiction: perhaps not a very good one at that. It might not be too late to go back.

  She rubbed her hands over her face, massaging the tense muscles that made her head throb. If she did go back, who would be Eliza’s friends? Certainly not Thomas. She had heard too that when the news of the court case reached India, her mother had put on black and announced that her daughter was dead. Her stepfather was too loyal a man not to support his wife.

  Her mind went back to Bath and dear Fanny. They had exchanged letters for a while, but Fanny was married with children of her own now. No place in her household for a woman of ill repute. That left Catherine Rae and she had already done enough.

  She got up and stretched. She felt so weary and cold. What was the point in thinking about all this tonight? It was better to go to bed.

  It was almost midday when she woke. She got up and threw the windows open wide to find that the day sparkled with sunshine. She took a deep breath of warm air and the problems of the night before seemed surmountable. It had been weariness speaking. Of course Lola had a future. She would be mad to go back when Eliza had nothing but a past.

  She remembered the czar’s smiles and his flattering words. That was it: she would go to Russia, but first, she would attend the final grand parade in his honour. He might even notice her again. That would show Berlin what it had lost.

  *

  Thirty thousand Prussian troops had assembled for the parade, every one of them resplendent in the smart, dark-blue uniforms that the king had commissioned for the occasion. By five o’clock in the morning, crowds of people were gathered at the Friedrichfelde to the east of Berlin to watch the preparations. For weeks, rain had been scarce and when the sun rose, dispelling the early morning mist, the pounding feet of the troops and horses stirred up clouds of gritty dust from the parched ground. The discomfort did not, however, spoil the good-humoured atmosphere.

  Lola came out alone from the city. She had hired an expensive and spirited grey mare for the occasion and she knew she looked splendid riding side-saddle in her full, black skirt and tight-fitting jacket. A glossy, high-crowned hat swathed with a black veil gave the final touch to the outfit.

  She slackened the reins and let the mare amble around the edge of the crowds for a while, looking for her opportunity to go into the royal enclosure. She saw the police were turning away anyone who could not show a pass, but she was sure she would find a way of evading them.

  From her vantage point, she watched the advance guard of the cavalry riding down the parade ground, their helmets glinting in the sun. Somewhere, a cannon boomed. With a snort of alarm, the mare reared and skittered sideways tossing her head. Lola brought her under control, and by then, an idea had flashed through her mind. When the next salvo rang out, she was ready. She wheeled the mare around and dug her spurs into the animal’s flanks. The mare bucked, sending the people nearby scurrying to avoid her flying hooves.

  Crouched low on her neck, Lola set her at the entrance to the royal enclosure. Astonished onlookers jumped aside as they charged through the open gate. Inside, Lola made great play of pulling up the mare as a policeman hurried over to them.

 
‘Your pass, lady?’

  She ignored him.

  ‘Your pass?’ he repeated.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  He gave her a stony look. He had been a king’s officer for twenty years and he had always done his duty with pride. He was not going to be outfaced by a mere woman.

  ‘If you don’t have a pass, you have no business here, whoever you are.’

  ‘My horse bolted. What would you have me do?’

  He took hold of the mare’s bridle. ‘You must leave at once.’

  Lola raised her whip.

  ‘Let go of my horse or you will regret it. The king will tell you I am welcome here.’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. If you were, you would have a pass to enter.’

  The whip hissed through the air and struck him hard across the mouth. With a yell, he let the horse go. Blood oozed from the cut on his lip.

  Lola glared at him as a gasp went up from the people watching the scene. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘You’ll pay dearly for that,’ he growled.

  Her heart thudded, but she would not let him think he could alarm her. She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘On the contrary, you should be grateful for the lesson in how to treat a lady. Be thankful I do not intend to report you,’ she snapped, and before he could reply, she had wheeled the mare around and cantered away.

  Chapter 17

  Warsaw

  Prince Ivan Fedorovitch Paskievitch, Viceroy to Czar Nicholas of Russia, Governor of Occupied Poland and Censor of Public Entertainments, studied the report on his desk with a frown.

  ‘So she assaulted a Prussian police officer and was allowed to go free?’

  ‘It seems so,’ his chief of police, Colonel Ignacy Abramowicz, replied. ‘I believe the man preferred to forget the incident, rather than suffer ridicule at a trial. He was a well-set-up, muscular fellow and they say Dona Montez is small and slight.’